


Father Figure

by Delphi



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Daddy Kink, M/M, Smut, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John doesn’t have a daddy kink (except he totally does).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father Figure

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 Round of Kink Bingo. Kink: "Ageplay"
> 
> The quoted story is Guy de Maupassant's "Souvenir."

It's not like John has daddy issues. Or if he does, it's the usual kind where you'd deck your old man on principle if you ever saw him again. But he doesn't have a...thing. A kink or anything like that.

First of all, his old man was a loser. He took off when John was a baby, and he would turn up maybe once or twice a year at most after that, usually when John was in care and his latest social worker went tracking down relatives. They would go out to McDonald's, and John would twist back and forth on the revolving seat while his old man stared silently out the window and jigged his leg and smoked a cigarette. That's how long it's been since he's seen his dad. You could still light up in a McDonald's.

So it's not fucked up that he's sleeping with Magneto, because Magneto is nothing like St. John Allerdyce, Senior. And it's not fucked up that John is leaning in the doorway of their latest safe house, getting hot at the sight of Magneto reading in the study, because if he looks like anyone's father—or grandfather—it's not like any kind John has ever known, except maybe from one of those late-night black and white movies that he's never watched all the way through.

Magneto glances lazily up from his book. His gaze flickers over John from head to toe and back again. "Can I help you?"

John meets his eyes for a moment. Then he looks down at Magneto's hands. At the finger he's slipped between the pages to mark his place. At the neat cuffs of his dress shirt underneath his dark grey sweater. He shrugs. He knows better than to say that he's bored, because then Magneto will make him read a book. He knows better to say that he's horny too, because then Magneto will make him read dirty book. Not good-dirty either. Boring-dirty, or else weird-dirty. The 1800s were seriously messed up.

Magneto is still looking at him, his eyebrows raised in expectation.

"I don't know," he says. Because he doesn't, not really. Mystique is away, and things are quiet, and he could really stand to get laid, but mostly he just wants...

"Are you looking for someone to pay attention to you, Pyro?"

John still can't quite figure out whether that tone is patient or smug. It's the accent. But he kind of likes it either way, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. "Yeah. Why not."

Magneto pats the arm of the chair in invitation. "We can't have you setting the house on fire, now can we."

"Whatever," John says, but he doesn't put any sting in it. He walks slowly across the dark hardwood and the plush rug before half-sitting on the arm of the chair, one leg dangling and the other braced on the floor. Magneto's arm comes around his waist, firm and close.

John peers down at the book, but the print is small and doesn't look like English. His suspicion is confirmed when Magneto reads a bit out loud. It sounds like French, but then he switches over, translating on the spot as he reads. Yeah, well, John would probably show off too if he could do that.

"How recollections of youth come to me in the soft sunlight of early spring. It was an age when all was pleasant, cheerful, charming, and intoxicating. How exquisite are the remembrances of those old springtimes..."

John closes his eyes when Magneto starts stroking his thigh. It's just a little motion, back and forth, not even anywhere near the good parts, but it's nice. Warm. You'd think the guy would have cold hands, chilled like metal, but he’s nearly as warm as John himself, who runs two degrees hotter than he should. Magneto’s hands are strong enough to take a city apart at the seams, but they're soft too, and he smells good, like the shaving cream he mixes up from a powder and puts on with a shaving brush. Not that John ever hangs around in the hallway trying to catch a glimpse of him shaving in the mornings.

The hand slips under his t-shirt, rubbing his bare stomach. It tickles a little, and he sucks in a breath. His dick is getting hard, and when he fidgets, the leather of the chair creaks. Getting felt up is seriously underrated. He licks his lips, trying to focus on the story, but all that's got his attention is the feeling of Magneto's hand on his body. The fingertip teasing along the edge of his waistband. Then the rhythm changes just a little, the back and forth coming slower but the pressure increasing. It takes him a second to figure it out, but then...fuck, he's glad he opted for a button fly this morning, because the front of his jeans is moving on its own. He barely whispers a faint "Holy shit," but it's enough to make Magneto—and the buttons—pause deliberately.

He clamps his mouth shut, getting a better grip on the chair as Magneto picks up the story again. He officially can't follow it. There's some guy in Paris, and he meets this chick, and something about a lost dog, but that's it. The sound of friction is too distracting: Magneto's fingertips against his stomach, and his jeans against his boxers against his dick, and then the paper-on-paper rustle of a page turning. He's listening to the sound of his own breathing and the softer, steadier rhythm of Magneto's, and the individual syllables of crisp, clean words.

The minutes pass at a crawl, and Magneto's voice doesn't so much as waver. The words come slowly, and Magneto's hand is still flexing, squeezing his side and making his own clothes jerk him off. He's so hard it aches, and he's seriously worried about coming in his pants. It's a fight to keep still and an even worse fight to keep his mouth shut. His lips part, and he's _this_ close to begging to be touched for real, to be sucked off, to be bent over the arm of the chair and fucked bareback, slow and dirty. But you don't interrupt Magneto. You just don't.

So he bites down on his tongue, his hips rolling now with the measured scrape of steel buttons and cotton against his dick. His fingers dig hard into the upholstery, leaving marks. The story spills over him, meaningless sound that rolls along until he thinks it will never stop. Another page turns, and then another, and his breath comes out in hard, slow shudders.

Until—thank God—the voice changes tone, winding down to happily ever after or whatever the hell it is. There's a moment when the only sound is John's pathetic breathing, and then the book whups softly shut. Then, after a stupidly long moment, there's a second hand on him, rubbing for real, and John is spreading his legs as far as he can and nearly letting out a sob of relief when his jeans are unbuttoned.

The arm tightens around his middle, holding him close, and he sort of ends up in Magneto's lap, but only because he doesn't want to fall off the fucking chair. He's never sat in his dad's lap in his life. That's what makes it all right, because it's not a daddy kink if the guy you're fucking is everything your old man wasn't, right? He wouldn't piss on his dad if the asshole was on fire, but he'd walk through the end of the world with Magneto. That's the difference. That's what makes him moan when a low murmur teases in his ear. That's what makes him shake hard and come, giving it all up, clinging like a kid and moaning like a slut.

“Good boy,” Magneto says, and in that moment, it’s everything John needs to hear.


End file.
